


Broken Brakes

by Phoenix_Soar



Series: Wicked Thing [8]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Sex, Angel/Demon Relationship, Angst and Porn, Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Frottage, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Pillow Principality Aziraphale (Good Omens), Porn with Feelings, Requited Unrequited Love, Scene: Soho 1967 (Good Omens), Service Top Crowley (Good Omens), Sex in the Bentley (Good Omens), Top Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-09
Updated: 2020-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:35:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23078722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoenix_Soar/pseuds/Phoenix_Soar
Summary: That’s all he’s asking for, really. Just … an hour or two without the ache of missing Aziraphale all the bloody time. That’s all.The night Aziraphale brings Crowley a flask of holy water, it's hard to keep away the memories of another charged night from over twenty years ago. Crowley knows what he can and can't ask for, but that doesn't stop his heart from wanting, desperately.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Wicked Thing [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1546879
Comments: 32
Kudos: 220





	Broken Brakes

**Author's Note:**

> Part 8 of the 'Wicked Thing' verse. To understand the context of this fic, please read the first part ['Wicked Games'](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21286790), and ['Just, let me'](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22868320).  
> (This fic also references ['When in Rome'](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22605847) and ['Sweet Offerings'](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22803700); recommended but not necessary to understand this story.)
> 
> Yep, it's the 1967 car scene in Soho! It heavily follows what went down in 1941, 'Just, let me'. 
> 
> All I have to say about this is, having written sex in the bookshop, I was a fool to imagine for a second that my brain wouldn't balance the scales by making me write sex in the Bentley >.>

Crowley is a wily thing as he, by his infernal nature, should be.

Crowley is a wily thing and his bosses would commend him if they didn’t know what he is presently using his wiles for.

It’s an obvious move, he knows. Obvious and unnecessarily dramatic*, but Crowley has not once in his existence been above either when they get him what he wants.

(* To make an understatement.)

Now he has it, Aziraphale seated not-quite-nonchalantly in the passenger side of his Bentley as if he’s been there all night, and Crowley has been _wanting_. Badly.

Of course he’d known what it would mean to plan his brazen heist in the middle of Soho of all places. It’s not like he hasn’t been keenly aware for the past couple of centuries that Aziraphale chose this location for his bookshop because of its very reputation, with the sole objective of receiving few to no customers.

So when Aziraphale begins with a jittery, ‘I work in Soho, I hear things…’, Crowley affects detachment, gazing silently through his windshield at the red light district which is far less interesting than the Angel sitting just a foot away from him.

Hell, Crowley has missed him.

He’s missed the gravity-defying fluff of his white-blond hair and the gentle wrinkles around his blue eyes. The sound of his deep voice, even as Aziraphale admonishes him for setting up a _caper_.

The warmth of his body, the rush of that heated blood within his human corporation, tangible even across the empty space between them.

Crowley hasn’t had Aziraphale this close since that night in 1941.

_That night … oh God._

But this will do. Crowley will never go so far as to admit it, but a part of him has been hoping for this ever since he began his activities in Soho. He might as well have been sauntering around the streets with a megaphone, yelling, _Oi, look what the big bad demon is up to, angel!_

And this will do. He will listen to Aziraphale’s scolding, drink in his fill of the Angel from behind his sunglasses while he’s at it, and - if he’s lucky - get Aziraphale to agree to a drink, perhaps in a more reputable part of town, when he’s done preaching.

Fuck, he’s missed him.

That’s all he hopes for as he responds flatly to Aziraphale reiterating the dangers of holy water. That’s all he’s asking for, really. Just … some time spent together. Go out for a drink, maybe drag it out to a meal if he’s luckier.

Just an hour or two without the ache of _missing_ Aziraphale all the bloody time. That’s all.

 _Please_.

He’s not expecting, not by the longest stretch of his imagination*, for Aziraphale to hold out the tartan-patterned thermos he seemingly brings out of nowhere.

(* And Crowley’s got heaps of that.)

Crowley’s jaw slackens. He’d imagined Aziraphale might turn up to talk sense into him about robbing a church. He hadn’t imagined Aziraphale would actually bring the stolen treasure to him. Not after his explosive reaction a century ago.

As he gingerly takes the small flask from him, still thunderstruck, the Angel says, ’Don’t go unscrewing the cap.’

At that, a part of Crowley is tempted to respond snappishly - _What do you take me for, a dolt?_ \- the way he sometimes does when Aziraphale drops those kinds of remarks. Obvious and oblivious.

It takes him right back to that ridiculous attempt at small talk - _‘Still a Demon, then?’_ \- back in Rome, right before … right before.

Bless it all to Heaven, Crowley doesn’t want to think about Rome. Not now. Not when he has a flask of destruction in his lap and the only being he has ever cared about beside him, as unattainable as the Grace he’d lost.

But it’s hard not to think about what set them both down this path, playing a wicked game down the centuries right up to this moment right here, when Aziraphale is dropping all of his misgivings to give Crowley the one material thing he’s ever asked of the Angel.

If he thinks too much about it, he can swear that he almost feels the burn of the holy water on his fingertips; his very extinction held at bay only by nothing but a few layers of metal and plastic. It’s not lost on Crowley that Aziraphale had refused him a hundred and five years ago because of this very reason.

He’d said it again tonight, in different words. _‘Holy water won’t just kill your body, it will destroy you completely’._

Aziraphale doesn’t understand. Crowley has no thoughts of ending his existence; he just needs the insurance. But it warms him like nothing else to know, with clear boundless certainty, that Aziraphale doesn’t want to see him gone. Aziraphale wants him alive, on Earth, here … with him.

It doesn’t surprise him. Not after 1941.

But it sets his heart pounding, nonetheless. It makes him want to close that aching distance between them, to lace their fingers together and breathe all the words he keeps bottled away against Aziraphale’s lips.

He doesn’t dare. This is not the first time they’ve met after the War, a quarter of a century ago, but… Aziraphale hasn’t touched him since. Not after that night in the bookshop.

_Just one night._

Up until then, Crowley had known exactly what was expected of him during their little wicked games.

He doesn’t know what is allowed anymore.

But none of that matters right now. This meeting isn’t one of their games, clandestine though it may be.

So all he says, after Aziraphale assures him of the authenticity of what he’d brought Crowley, is an awkward, 

‘Should I say thank you?’

It sounds odd to his own ears. Across the long years they’ve known each other, Aziraphale has thanked him profusely, sung over Crowley’s irritated protests of him being a Demon. In contrast, Crowley has never uttered those words. Not for lack of occasion, not even because of where he comes from … there’d just never really been need for it.*

(* As far as Crowley is concerned, there has never been any need for Aziraphale to thank him in words either, but the Angel _insists_ , stubborn bastard.)

It should be an acceptable thing for an Angel by far, which is why Crowley is taken aback when Aziraphale visibly stiffens at his question.

‘B-better not,’ he says. His complexion is flushed and his eyes dart from Crowley’s eyes to the flask in his lap and back again.

Crowley blinks slowly behind his glasses.

Aziraphale’s gaze falls on the thermos once more. And then he’s focussing on Crowley’s face. His lips.

The Angel looks away, cheeks flaming.

Things abruptly click into place and Crowley exhales. It’s not the flask in his lap Aziraphale is looking at, though it is beyond Crowley why an offer of gratitude of all things should send Aziraphale’s thoughts down _that_ road -

_‘Let me, let me thank you, Crowley … For - for rescuing me…’_

Ah. Crowley feels his own cheeks grow hot. Right, of course.

A part of him wants to scream. The other wants to latch on to Aziraphale and never let go.

Crowley takes in a deep breath, not knowing how to react. He might have been remembering Rome, but the last thing on his mind when he offered to thank Aziraphale was to _proposition_ him.

Well, it’s on his damn mind now, because apparently he’s gone and reminded Aziraphale about Paris* of all places.

(* It sure as hell wasn’t _Crowley_ who’d done the propositioning back then.)

Licking his lips slowly, Crowley wonders how to explain. After their last time, that one real night in the bookshop, Crowley truly has not been expecting a repeat. He may be an optimistic thing, but he’s not an idiot. He’d understood then that that single night of love-making is all he’s meant to have, and he understands even now that if they were to ever be intimate again, it would be back to just fucking.

Back to their wicked game.

But when they ran into each other for the first time after that, just a few months later, Aziraphale had kept a careful distance from Crowley. He’d been a little hurt but not resentful; what went down at the bookshop was still fresh and agonising, after all.

When Aziraphale continued to avoid physical contact altogether over the few meetings that followed, Crowley grew surprised. They hadn’t always ended up in bed every time they met before, but Aziraphale never went too long without pulling Crowley to some discreet spot for a shag. The sudden change in Aziraphale had led Crowley to wonder if the Angel meant to stop their casual relations for good.

Aziraphale hadn’t _said_ anything explicitly - but then again, it wasn’t like they’d said anything when they started shagging either. In the end, Crowley had simply not asked. He’d doubted anything good would’ve come out of that.

But now, in the tense atmosphere hanging between them in his car, he begins to wonder if the real reason Aziraphale is keeping his distance is because he fears that _Crowley_ wants more* after 1941. It would certainly explain his reaction to Crowley’s innocent** offer of thanks.

(* Crowley always has and will want more. That doesn’t mean he’s fool enough to push for it.

** Crowley would normally pull a face at being associated with that word. It’s still true.)

Before he can say anything, however, Aziraphale breaks the awkward silence. 'I thought Demons didn’t say thank you.’

Crowley gazes at him for a long moment. He tightens his grip around the tartan flask. ‘I think, for a favour of this magnitude, it’s rather warranted.’

He is aware what it sounds like, especially now that he knows how Aziraphale interpreted his offer. It’s still not a proposition, though.

What it is, is the first time since his Fall that Crowley is offering his gratitude, Demon or not, his sincerity punching past his lips to crack through his voice.

Aziraphale meets his eyes. His lips tremble. ‘Don’t thank me for giving you the means to destroy yourself.’

Crowley shakes his head, almost imperceptibly. ’I won’t destroy myself. I’m saying thank you … for wanting me here.’

The Angel’s breath escapes him in a low gasp. ‘Crowley,’ he whispers.

There is no mistaking the glint of tears in his blue eyes, the fissures in his failing calm mask as he allows his anguish to break forth. His longing.

Aziraphale misses him too.

‘Angel,’ Crowley begins, his voice breaking, but Aziraphale doesn’t let him finish.

He takes the flask from Crowley’s limp hands, and after an impatient survey, places it inside the compartment where Crowley keeps his stock of backup sunglasses. There physically shouldn’t be room for the thermos, but the Bentley allows it, coaxed by an almost unassuming miracle.

All of this happens very fast and Crowley is still processing when Aziraphale, abruptly and without warning, scoots closer and swings himself onto Crowley’s lap, straddling his thighs.

If Crowley had a brain cell to spare, he’d amusedly consider that Aziraphale most definitely used a frivolous miracle to accomplish this manoeuvre. There is no room for the Angel to do all that without banging several limbs on the way.

All of his thoughts, however, are focussed only on the lapful of Angel he now has, a warm solid weight pressing down on his thighs and all along his front. Crowley tips his head back against the headrest, gazing up at Aziraphale with open surprise even as his arms come up to wind around the Angel, purely on reflex.

‘Aziraphale?’ he says quietly.

Aziraphale parts his lips as if to speak. But then he closes his teary eyes, and with a little gasp that sounds more like a sob, leans down.

Crowley can’t help the desperate noise that escapes him as Aziraphale crushes their mouths together, his fierce kiss a sharp contrast to the gentleness of his soft hands as they cradle Crowley’s face. Crowley pushes back against Aziraphale, welcoming the bruising slide of their lips as they kiss hungrily, almost brutal in their claiming of each other.

Fuck, he’s missed this. Missed the warmth of Aziraphale’s lips, the searing taste of his mouth, the sounds of pleasure he makes when Crowley ravishes him.

He’s missed having Aziraphale in his arms, the feel of his plush body and the comforting weight of him; the heat of his palms as he cups Crowley’s face and the way he shivers when Crowley digs his fingers into his arse, pulling Aziraphale flush against him.

Crowley can feel the effort Aziraphale has made too, from where it is pressing into his stomach, hard and hot. His own body responds in kind, arousal shooting through him like fire from every point of contact between him and Aziraphale.

He growls under his breath when Aziraphale abruptly leans back, the sound as they break away wet and obscene.

Aziraphale is panting as he looks down at Crowley, his eyes heated and lips kiss-swollen, red and glistening. The sight of him is enough to drive Crowley mad with desire. His erection is hard and bordering on painful in his tight-fitting trousers. He growls again when Aziraphale shifts, his arse sliding over Crowley’s clothed cock.

‘Aziraphale,’ Crowley hisses, pained and impossibly turned on, ‘if you don’t want to take this too far -’

‘People will see,’ Aziraphale blurts. He glances out of the window, through the James Bond bullet hole decals Crowley won the only time he’d sprung for petrol.

Crowley doesn’t bother looking. ‘You think people will care? In this part of town?’

‘I don’t -’

Crowley snaps his fingers. ‘No one will see us, angel.’

Aziraphale turns back to him, still breathing hard. His movements calmer now, he gently places his fingers on the hinges of Crowley’s sunglasses. He pauses, waiting for permission.

Crowley nods, once.

Aziraphale removes them swiftly, folding them and putting them away without looking. Crowley doesn’t care where they end up, not when he has Aziraphale gazing into his bare eyes with such tender fondness it makes Crowley’s heart ache.

‘Better,’ Aziraphale whispers, his breath washing over Crowley’s lips.

Crowley is still holding Aziraphale to him by the arse, and he gently palms his cheeks, more a caress now than groping. The touch still makes Aziraphale’s eyes flutter, his breath hitching.

‘What do you want, angel?’ Crowley murmurs.

Aziraphale bites his lower lip. ‘My dear,’ he begins haltingly, ‘you … you must understand, I want to …’ He trails off, and then tries again, ‘Even if we want to … this, it - w-we can’t…’

Crowley holds his gaze for a long moment. He’s understood correctly then; Aziraphale has indeed been worrying that Crowley will seek to have more after that night in 1941.

‘Aziraphale,’ he says. ‘I know. I _know_ , all right? I told you that night that I … I told you I get it. And I meant it.’

‘Crowley…’ Aziraphale’s eyes are bright, and for a moment Crowley fears that the Angel may cry.

He rubs his hands soothingly over the small of his back. ‘I know. I’m not asking for more. So,’ he presses his palms in, making Aziraphale lean into Crowley, ‘just tell me what you want, angel. We can stop if you like. But -‘

Crowley breaks off with a low moan in his throat when Aziraphale abruptly grinds down on him.

‘A-ange -mmph!’

Aziraphale clings to his shoulders as he kisses Crowley again, rocking slow and deliberate on his lap. With at least two layers of fabric between them, the friction is not even close to enough, and Crowley finds himself trying to buck up into Aziraphale as the Angel steals his very breath, nibbling and sucking on Crowley’s lips.

‘This isn’t very comfortable,’ Aziraphale draws back to whisper, glancing once over his shoulder.

Dazed though he is, Crowley gathers enough sense to realise the steering wheel must be digging into Aziraphale’s back. With a thought, he transports them to the backseat, landing unceremoniously on top of Aziraphale as the Bentley generously accommodates them, in line with Crowley’s desire-fuelled thoughts.

Aziraphale makes a sound of surprise when he finds himself pressed down onto the backseat, but he is then being ravenously kissed again. Crowley looms over him, running his hands desperately over every inch of the Angel he can touch.

He swirls his tongue against Aziraphale’s as the Angel returns his kiss ardently, absorbing the soft mewling noises that escape him when Crowley drags his teeth over Aziraphale’s searching tongue and sucks the sinewy muscle into his mouth. Shivering, Aziraphale winds his fingers through Crowley’s shaggy hair, and he moans when Crowley responds by raking his nails over Aziraphale’s chest, locating his nipples through waistcoat and shirt from centuries of experience in exploring his body.

Relinquishing Aziraphale’s mouth only to latch on to his neck, biting and sucking hard enough to make him cry out, Crowley lets his hand stroke further down until he is pressing down on the Angel’s bulging trousers. Aziraphale’s hips jerk up, rubbing into his palm, and he fists his hands in Crowley’s velvet jacket, pulling at the material.

He knows what that means, and without lifting his head from Aziraphale’s neck, snaps his fingers. In a moment, their jacket and coat disappear, followed a second later by the rest of their clothes* when Crowley decides he wants to feel all of Aziraphale.

(* They appear, neatly folded, on the driver’s seat.)

They both groan at the abrupt slide of heated skin on skin. Moving to kiss Aziraphale again, Crowley rearranges himself, propping his forearms on either side of Aziraphale to hold himself up on his elbows. Aziraphale opens his legs, inviting Crowley to settle between them, and wraps his arms around Crowley’s neck. He whines in protest when Crowley breaks their kiss only to moan, his voice almost obscene, when Crowley kisses down his throat and chest to tease at his nipples.

Aziraphale throws his head back on the seat, arching his back as Crowley laves his tongue greedily over his nipples, moving from one to the other until the Angel is shaking uncontrollably.

‘C-Crowley!’ he cries, sounding wrecked as Crowley continues to lick and suck across his chest. ‘Ah! Oh … oh, please …’

Crowley pulls off, just long enough to hiss, ‘What do you want, angel?’ He closes his lips over Aziraphale’s right nipple before the Angel can reply.

Moaning, Aziraphale grabs at Crowley’s arms. ‘I - I - I want … _ahh_!’ He arches again when Crowley adds a hint of teeth to his torment. ‘Crowley! Please, s-stop …’

‘Do you want me to stop?’ Crowley says, letting his breath waft over Aziraphale’s heated skin. He flicks his tongue over a nipple, and then the other, as the Angel writhes beneath him.

‘Stop teas - _ahh_!’

Aziraphale starts to pant as Crowley slowly moves over him, sliding his hips with purpose over the Angel’s. Their cocks brush against each other and Aziraphale whimpers, his eyes screwed shut as he bucks his hips up, trying to grind up harder against Crowley. Crowley reaches down with a hand to pin Aziraphale’s hips to the car seat, and then repeats his undulating movements, rubbing his hard prick against Aziraphale’s with every stroke.

‘Cro-Crowley, please!’

‘Hmm, but you like this.’ Crowley leans down to drag his tongue over Aziraphale’s lips, dipping in for a taste when the Angel opens his mouth in another moan.

The slow, agonising slide of their cocks is growing wetter, their precum mixing and slicking each other up. Crowley grinds down on Aziraphale harder, groaning at the friction while the Angel squirms.

‘P-please,’ Aziraphale gasps. He is flushed all the way down to his heaving chest.

‘Please what?’ Crowley leans down to nuzzle at his throat, flicking his tongue out again, this time to taste the salty sheen of sweat across Aziraphale’s collarbones.

‘Oh, Crowley, you tease!’

‘Tell me what you want, angel.’

‘You,’ Aziraphale rasps, bucking his hips free of Crowley’s hold to grind up against him. ‘Inside me. Now.’

Crowley muffles a moan into Aziraphale’s chest. He presses a quick kiss to his sternum before straightening up. Flushed, he just takes in Aziraphale for a moment, observing his parted lips and the rise and fall of his chest as he pants.

Beautiful, nude and debauched; an Angel painted in the neon hues of Soho’s red lights.

 _Fuck_. Crowley has pictured, more often than he’d like to admit, what it might be like to have Aziraphale in his car. And like always, the Angel makes for a vision his imagination can never compete with.

Leaning down to nip at his inner thigh, just past his right knee, Crowley smooths his other hand down the side of Aziraphale’s pelvis, teasingly avoiding his straining cock and balls, to slide a finger over his entrance.

With a jolt, Crowley finds that Aziraphale is already wet and, when he presses in, loose.

He raises an eyebrow down at the Angel, who blushes even harder than he did when Crowley had him writhing just moments ago.

‘Impatient, are we?’ Crowley drawls.

It’s rare, if hardly ever, that Aziraphale wastes miracles on self-lubrication. Not when he so enjoys being opened up, slow and agonising. Often enough he has begged for Crowley’s tongue, for his fingers, and Crowley has long discovered that if done right, a good tongue-fucking is enough to bring Aziraphale off as satisfyingly as with his cock.

But clearly that’s not what Aziraphale is looking for tonight.

Still red-faced, he whispers, ‘Please, it … it’s just been so long.’

Crowley’s heart flutters in his chest. With a groan, he swoops down to kiss Aziraphale hard, mildly aware of the Angel hooking his left leg over the seat’s backrest to give Crowley easier access.

Although Aziraphale is evidently more than ready, Crowley can’t resist going through the motions of preparing him. He is so open and wet that Crowley can easily sink in two fingers at once, scissoring them to feel along his hot, slick walls. Aziraphale whimpers into Crowley’s mouth as the Demon pumps his fingers inside him, at length twisting in a third.

As Crowley crooks his fingers, searching for his sweet spot, Aziraphale breaks off their kiss.

‘I - I’m ready. Please, just … please, would you?’

And Aziraphale looks up at him so desperately that Crowley can’t hide the tenderness in his gaze. ‘Well, since you ask so nicely…’

He keeps his fingers inside Aziraphale as he goes up on his knees and, lubing his free hand with a thought, slicks up his cock generously. Aziraphale is breathing hard, watching his every move; the anticipation shines in his eyes.

‘Hold up your legs for me,’ Crowley says, not letting go of his cock nor removing his fingers from Aziraphale. He wants to keep the Angel filled right up until the end.

With a sharp exhale, Aziraphale obeys. Leaving his left leg over the backrest, he wraps his right arm under his other knee, holding the leg up off the floor and as close to his torso as he can. Aziraphale wriggles down on the seat as well, trying to angle his hips higher.

Crowley can’t quite hide his smile. Aziraphale looks perfect like this.

Palming his leaking prick, he aligns the head right beside his fingers, still sheathed to the third knuckle in Aziraphale.

‘Ready for me, angel?’

Aziraphale huffs, mild annoyance flashing across his face. ‘If I’ve told you _once_ -’

His complaint dissolves on his tongue when Crowley slips his fingers free and immediately replaces them with his cock, pushing into Aziraphale in one swift move. The Angel cries out, losing his grip on his leg. Crowley grabs the leg before it falls to the floor, hooking an arm around the knee to bring it around his waist as he leans back down over Aziraphale. He doesn’t stop pressing in, Aziraphale’s preparations paying off as Crowley’s prick slides in until he is completely buried in the Angel, thighs up against his plump arse.

With shaky puffs of breath, Aziraphale clings to him, digging his nails into Crowley’s shoulder and back. Crowley watches his expression, waiting for the tense lines to soften and the familiar look of bliss to take over, indicating that Aziraphale has adjusted to him. It takes only a few seconds before Aziraphale swings his left leg around Crowley’s waist as well, wrapping himself snugly around the Demon and encouraging him to move.

As Crowley rocks into him, slow and careful, he realises that Aziraphale has prepared himself so well that Crowley can immediately start taking him hard and fast. When Aziraphale cants his hips impatiently, his grip tightening on his arm and shoulders, Crowley knows that’s what Aziraphale wants tonight. A hard, punishing fuck.

And yet, for all that Crowley knows Aziraphale enjoys being taken roughly and has duly delivered for nearly two millennia, he can’t bring himself to do that tonight.

Not when all he can think about now is how they’d made love more than twenty-five years ago, in the cosy back room of Aziraphale’s bookshop. When, for just one night, Aziraphale had shown Crowley how he truly felt.

For just one night, they’d been allowed to be in love.

Crowley’s breath escapes him in low shudders as he moves in Aziraphale, unable to look away from his blue eyes. Aziraphale had been so lovely for him that night in the bookshop, so vulnerable and raw, and openly brimming with love for Crowley. He’d begged Crowley to make it last, had breathed Crowley’s name endlessly like a prayer while Crowley made love to him, tender and passionate, until first light and their stolen moment came to an end.

He can’t bring himself to fuck Aziraphale mindlessly like an animal, like a wicked thing, when all he can think about is how right it feels to love him.

_We can’t._

Gritting his teeth, Crowley picks up his pace minimally, pulling almost all the way out and slamming back in. Aziraphale is rocking his hips to meet Crowley’s every thrust. Crowley knows he is still not going hard enough, but he keeps at it, driving into Aziraphale slow and deep until he can’t get away with it anymore.

It’s not long before Aziraphale snaps, gasping at him, ‘C-Crowley, please! Harder!’

Blessing under his breath, Crowley lets himself go, giving up the farce that he could ever make sweet love to Aziraphale again. Bracing himself up with his hands on either side of Aziraphale’s head, Crowley snaps his hips, pounding into his slick heat until he’s nearly driving Aziraphale up with every thrust. Aziraphale moans throatily, throwing his head back against the seat. He reaches up with a hand to brace himself against the door, using the leverage to grind back down on Crowley’s cock.

With a groan, Crowley leans down to land a sloppy kiss on Aziraphale’s mouth. Aziraphale returns it, panting against his lips.

When Crowley draws back, he sees tears in Aziraphale’s eyes. The Angel doesn’t look away, his blue eyes shining and alive with a myriad of emotions as they move together.

It’s the same way he had looked at Crowley on that night of ’41, the feelings he doesn’t dare express laid bare on his face.

Crowley’s hips stutter, almost losing rhythm as he stares at Aziraphale, his heart pounding wildly in his chest.

‘A-Angel,’ he chokes out, aware of how broken his voice sounds.

Aziraphale parts his lips as if to speak. But the only thing he says, squeezing his eyes shut desperately, is, ‘Go harder…’

The Bentley is shaking, Crowley’s hasty miracle the only thing keeping them out of the humans’ attention. As Crowley fucks harder into him, now maintaining a frantic pace, Aziraphale shoves a hand between them to touch himself.

Hissing under his breath, Crowley wedges his shoulder against the backrest and reaches down with his other hand to grasp the Angel’s cock. Aziraphale lets him, crying out with pleasure as Crowley slicks up his cock up with his own precum and works him roughly.

Within seconds, Aziraphale is coming hard over his fingers, wailing Crowley’s name. Crowley lets the sound wash over him, revelling in the ecstasy in Aziraphale’s voice as he fucks him through it, the Angel’s body trembling violently as he rides out his climax.

Aziraphale has barely gone boneless when Crowley pulls out of him, making him gasp softly. Kneeling over the prone Angel, Crowley palms his aching cock, allowing the pleasure building in his gut to finally crest.

He hears Aziraphale’s sharp intake of breath when Crowley comes over his stomach, his spunk mixing with Aziraphale’s own already staining the swell of his belly. Crowley fists his prick, grasping Aziraphale’s knee with his other hand to steady himself.

As he comes down, panting, he rakes his eyes over Aziraphale sprawled under him. The Angel is a mess, the flush on his skin evident even in the magenta haze of Soho. His hair is in disarray and his torso is painted with the evidence of their coupling.

Freshly fucked and utterly beautiful.

Unable to bite back a moan, Crowley leans down to run his tongue up through the mess on Aziraphale’s stomach, tasting the bitter mix of himself and the Angel.

Aziraphale shivers, his hands coming to rest on Crowley’s shoulders. ‘Wh-what are you doing?’

‘Cleaning you up,’ Crowley grunts before diving back in, lapping at Aziraphale’s stomach.

But Aziraphale presses down on his shoulders, gently pushing Crowley back until they are both sitting up.

Crowley feels his heart sink. Right, it’s over now. They’ve fucked and Aziraphale’s walls are back up.

And yet, as Crowley wordlessly goes through the motions of cleaning up and dressing them, the demonic way this time, he can’t get the image of how Aziraphale looked at him out of his mind. Gazing into Crowley’s eyes as they moved together, Aziraphale hadn’t hidden his feelings for Crowley at all; he’d offered them up as freely as he’d done a quarter of a century ago when they made love for the first and only time.

Crowley stares at Aziraphale, who is fumbling to put his coat to rights* and avoiding his eyes.

(* There isn’t a fold out of place. Crowley’s miracle had dressed him as meticulously as he always looks.)

He doesn’t want Aziraphale to go. Not just yet. Lingering after sex is not part of their wicked game, Crowley knows. Just like how making love is not an option, not for an Angel and a Demon.

Crowley knows. He _knows_ all of this. But he is still wanting, and for the first time in a long time, he makes a gamble.

‘Can I drop you anywhere?’

Aziraphale looks at him then, his fingers stilling on his cravat. A blush blooms on his cheeks. He looks so lovely.

’No, thank you,’ he says, but his voice catches on the words.

Crowley’s face falls. He can’t help it, can’t hide it, and he can’t even feel embarrassed when Aziraphale catches his expression.

‘Oh, don’t look so disappointed. Perhaps one day we could, I don’t know … go for a picnic. Dine at the Ritz.’ For a second, Aziraphale looks wistful, as if he too, like Crowley, imagines a day when they don’t have anything to fear.

When they can put their clandestine meetings behind them and kiss under the sun.

Then his expression closes off again and Aziraphale goes back to fixing the cravat that doesn’t need fixing.

There is no point, Crowley knows. He knows what he can and can’t ask for. But haunted as he is by the memory of how Aziraphale looked at him, like Crowley is everything he could ever want, he can’t stop himself, the plea clear in his voice,

‘I’ll give you a lift. Anywhere you want to go.’

When Aziraphale meets his eyes this time, he looks heartsick. He knows exactly what Crowley is asking of him.

‘You go too fast for me, Crowley.’

It is as if Aziraphale took the flaming sword he’d once owned and rammed it through Crowley’s chest.

But he’d known better. He’d _known better_ and Crowley has no one to blame but himself as Aziraphale, with one last look, leaves his car.

And in the wake of the door slammed shut, Crowley knows those words will haunt him as unmercifully as their one night of love in the bookshop.

**Author's Note:**

> ~~At this point, I think it's safe to label this series as 'Aziraphale and Crowley Fuck Through the Ages'~~
> 
> I'd been thinking about how 1967 would fit into this verse for a while now. I was legit in the middle of writing another 'Wicked Thing' fic when inspiration struck for this part /covers face/  
> Decided to finish this one first cos its angsty, and make it up to you guys with the next part, which is post-Armageddon and thus fluffy smut by default. ~~Want a hint? Marathon sex~~
> 
> Please do leave a comment to share your thoughts, or come say hi on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/RV_Phoenix_Soar) or [Tumblr](https://phoenix-soar.tumblr.com)
> 
> More of my Ineffable Husbands fics [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works?utf8=%E2%9C%93&commit=Sort+and+Filter&work_search%5Bsort_column%5D=revised_at&include_work_search%5Brelationship_ids%5D%5B%5D=575567&work_search%5Bother_tag_names%5D=&work_search%5Bexcluded_tag_names%5D=&work_search%5Bcrossover%5D=&work_search%5Bcomplete%5D=&work_search%5Bwords_from%5D=&work_search%5Bwords_to%5D=&work_search%5Bdate_from%5D=&work_search%5Bdate_to%5D=&work_search%5Bquery%5D=&work_search%5Blanguage_id%5D=&user_id=Phoenix_Soar)


End file.
